They heard a gay voice singing through the garden. In came Doris, her arms laden with lavender flowers cut for drying. She came, and filled the room with light.
"You here, Earle!" cried Doris. "Come up to the coppice nutting with me; the hazel bushes are full."
She held out her hand, frank and natural as a child, and away they went together.
Doris was fantastic as a butterfly that day. She danced on before Earle. She lingered till he overtook her, and before he could say two words, was off again. Then she sang gay snatches of song. She noted his anxious, grave face, and setting her saucy little head on one side, trilled forth:
"Prithee, why so pale, fond lover,
Prithee, why so pale?
For if looking well won't move her,
Looking ill must fail."
Finally, at a mossy seat under an oak tree, he made a dash, caught her, drew her to his side, and cried:
"Doris, be quiet and hear me; you shall hear me; I have something to tell you—something important."
"Bless us!" cried Doris, in pretended terror. "Is it going to rain? Are you going to tell me something dreadful about the weather, and I have a set of new ribbons on!"
"Dear Doris, it is not about the weather; it is an old, old story."
"Don't tell it, by any means. I hate old things."